


Ephelides

by i_eat_men_like_air



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: (And Trans Author), Dirty Talk, Flirting, Freckles!, Gentle Sex, M/M, Mild Injury, Nipple Play, Penis In Vagina Sex, Praise Kink (Inevitably), Squirting, Stanley Has Freckles And Harry Is Obsessed, Stephen 'Magic Hands' Stanley, Trans!Harry Goodsir, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29764752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_eat_men_like_air/pseuds/i_eat_men_like_air
Summary: Harry has fallen on the ice and sprained his wrist. It isn't serious, but when he goes to Stanley for treatment he falls for something else...(It's Stanley, he falls for Stanley, and Stanley's freckles)
Relationships: Harry D. S. Goodsir/Stephen S. Stanley
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Terror Bingo prompt 'Sexual Tension'.  
> Inspired by a discussion with Molly (stinkyfic) and Daisy (Tapeworrm) about Mr. Petrie and his freckles.

‘Mr. Goodsir how, exactly, did you manage this?’

Doctor Stanley’s voice was clipped as Harry shuffled uncomfortably on the examination table. The man loomed over him, arms crossed over his broad chest, a stern set to his expression. 

‘I - uh, I slipped on the ice, sir, you see I was trying to help the men pull up another net - they’ve all been so awfully accommodating to my studies, you know - and, well, I -,’ Harry blushed, staring into his lap. 

He had tried to be helpful. Mr. Collins and Mr. Morfin had very kindly set a net down into the water - with the help of an ice drill - and he had wanted to pull it up with them; he felt terribly useless, just sitting there on an upturned bucket and watching. They had both insisted it was no trouble, but he had insisted right back: he would help them retrieve the net.

Stanley quirked a disapproving eyebrow in his direction, ‘You managed to sprain your wrist pulling up a net, from the ice, with the help of two much larger, and much  _ stronger _ \- men? Mr. Goodsir that is ridiculous.’

Harry nodded, his blush now sunset-pink, ‘I know, sir, my apologies; I simply wanted to be of assistance, they have done so much to assist me, and I felt awful just sitting there doing nothing, and, well - oh, goodness...’

He shrugged in defeat, not knowing how else to justify his actions. He had expected it to be alright! Both Morfin and Collins were large, strong men, as Stanley had said. But then he had slipped and fallen, flopping onto his back, much like the white-eyed fish they had pulled to the surface. 

He had reached out to steady himself - and he berated himself for that, a foolish thing to do - and his wrist had caught the brunt of it. It was not broken, mercifully, but it was really rather painful nonetheless. 

Stanley’s face remained stony; long lines, pale eyes, thin mouth all frozen in a look that made Harry feel transparent and two feet tall. 

‘You are no doubt aware that  _ you  _ are the medical officer on duty at the moment, Mr. Goodsir, not I?’ 

Harry nodded, wishing he could fold into himself and disappear.

‘And that, upon trotting off to look at,’ Stanley paused, mouth wrinkling with distaste, ‘ _ frozen fish _ , you effectively abandoned your post?’

Harry frowned slightly, wanting to protest; he had not  _ abandoned  _ his post, that was a terribly dramatic way of putting it. He had simply nipped out for a moment when Morfin had called. It was not unheard of for Stanley to leave the sickbay now and again when he was on duty, anyway! 

‘You have a different view of things, hm?’ Stanley asked, imperious. 

Harry sighed, and shook his head; arguing with the man, now, would be a waste of time and energy. His wrist hurt. All he wanted was a bandage to compress the injury, maybe something for the pain, and to end his shift in peace.

Stanley let out a  _ ‘hm’ _ , ‘Yes, well, Mr. Goodsir, a flagrant disregard of duty aside, do you intend to simply sit there, cradling your wrist like a wounded kitten, or will you let me examine it?’

_ A kitten! _ Harry huffed with indignation and held out his wrist, feeling for all the world like a petulant child having been caught by a parent in some harmless but prohibited act. 

Stanley’s hands were, oddly, warm on his skin. He looked up in surprise. It may have been irrational, but he had expected the man’s hands to be as icy as his demeanour. Instead, they were gentle and soft, and warm, and they felt rather lovely.  _ Really rather lovely _ .

Harry gulped; the doctor was an undoubtedly attractive man, yes, but he had never had cause to focus on it - and he had never been in such a peculiarly intimate situation with him before either. He watched Stanley closely as he examined his wrist: eyes running over slightly wind-chafed skin; pale, strawberry-blonde hair; gently sloping nose; light freckles coating his nose…

_ Freckles!  _ He had never noticed that Doctor Stanley, the sternest man aboard both Terror and Erebus, had freckles! Soft and pale brown; scattered over his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, trailing down his chin towards his collar. Harry’s eyes widened slightly, his gaze now focussing on the hollow of Stanley’s throat, where a small cluster of freckles sat in shadow. 

He blinked, looking carefully at Stanley - not wanting the man to notice - and was relieved to see that he was still slowly working his way over Harry’s wrist. Harry winced, as the doctor hit a tender spot, and Stanley hummed non-comitally, seemingly unbothered by his patient’s discomfort. 

Stanley’s hands were still gentle as they moved, and Harry bit back a gasp as he noticed that the freckles covered the doctor’s hands as well. They were sparser, there, undoubtedly due to the gloves that Stanley wore when above deck, but they were still there; lovely, soft, trailing loosely across pale skin. 

Harry swallowed loudly.  _ How much of Stanley did they cover?  _ He felt his cheeks flush again. The doctor was not in his full uniform, having not been on duty, and Harry could see a tiny sliver of skin between the buttons of his shirt.  _ Were there freckles there? _ He dearly wished to see; to thumb open those buttons and do a thorough examination of every inch of the stony-faced surgeon, seeking out those lovely, pale ink-drops as he went. 

‘Mr. Goodsir?’ Stanley’s voice was stern, irritable, and Harry blinked, shaking his head in an attempt to clear the sudden, bottomless onslaught of inappropriate thoughts. 

‘My apologies, sir - it’s rather sore, is all,’ Harry felt his voice hitch, and wished dearly for the floor to swallow him up.

Stanley hummed again, turning Harry’s wrist over and gently pressed his fingertips against the delicate skin and tendons. Harry hissed, as Stanley found a spot that was really quite painful.

‘It is only a sprain, Mr. Goodsir, there’s no need for dramatics,’ Stanley raised his eyebrows slightly as he looked at Harry, ‘all you need is a cold compress and a bandage, perhaps a Dover’s powder if the pain is  _ really _ that severe.’

Harry nodded, silently. He could have done all of this himself, really, but his wrist ached, and Stanley’s hands were so warm, and he had so many freckles; warm, lovely freckles…

Harry shivered at the sudden loss of contact as Stanley crossed the room and filled a small basin with freezing meltwater from a pitcher, grabbing a clean rag as he went. Stanley rolled his own sleeves up without finesse as he set the basin down next to Harry. 

‘Would you settle yourself, Mr. Goodsir? It’s only water and cloth, for goodness’ sake,’ Stanley’s voice was stern as he bundled the rag into a compress and set it beside the basin.

Harry tensed all of his muscles in an effort not to move as Stanley began to carefully roll his sleeve up, moving it out of the way with firm, gentle hands. Every so often the doctor’s knuckles would brush up against Harry’s arm, and Harry would have to tense again, suppressing a shiver at the warmth. 

Stanley’s knuckles were softly covered in freckles as well; little droplets of pigment adding a warmth and character to his skin that Harry would not usually associate with the strict, imposing man.

Stanley dipped the rag in the water, soaking it through before wringing it out carefully and looking down at Harry with a mildly disinterested expression:

‘Do try not to squirm, Mr. Goodsir, I am aware that it will be cold, but you really ought to be used to that by now.’

Harry nodded again, trying his best not to wince as the compress was pressed to his aching wrist. It was painful, and pleasant, by turns; one morphing gently into the other as Stanley held the compress firmly against his skin.

Tiny rivulets of water trickled down from the compress, weaving their way down Harry’s wrist where it rested in Stanley’s hands, and soaking into his shirtsleeve; icy and teasing, compared to the warm, certain grip of the doctor. 

Harry forced his breath to stay even, not allowing a hitch or a hiccup as he settled himself, and resumed his silent exploration of Stanley’s freckles. 

Now the doctor’s sleeves were rolled up, Harry could get a good look at a firm, flexing landscape of skin that was absolutely covered with the delightful little things. Irregular drips of pigment - pale, pale brown - fell upon soft, pink skin, and were sheltered by a canopy of light, auburn hair. Large, steady hands - still so warm and gentle - held Harry’s wrist and arm in place, but did not touch his hand; Harry thought he might faint if Stanley touched his hand.

He let his eyes trace the pale, insensible pattern of the freckles up and down Stanley’s forearms, admiring the strong, subtly flexing musculature and the way his tendons stood out ever so slightly at his wrists where he was holding the compress. His fingers - long and confident as the man himself - were almost devoid of freckles, Harry noticed mournfully, save an impossibly light few that were scattered freely over the first joint of each finger. And, Harry gulped, a few that seemed to persist between each strong, aristocratic finger.  _ He wished for all the world that he could touch them - perhaps he could ask Stanley, for the sake of scientific observation if nothing else; so few men aboard either ship had such lovely freckles _ .

‘Mr. Goodsir?’ Stanley’s voice drifted down to meet him, ‘what exactly are you doing?’

Harry blinked, looking up at Stanley, and realising with a sudden lurch that he had been leaning into the man. He hadn’t even noticed, and now he was all but resting his head on the man’s chest.  _ Heavens above _ . 

Harry jerked backwards, a blush rushing upwards and covering his face almost immediately. 

‘Oh! Oh, gosh, sir, I - I’m terribly sorry. I wasn’t paying attention, I’m afraid,  _ oh _ , my mind was elsewhere. Oh - oh, goodness me - my apologies, sir, oh gosh,’ Harry stumbled over his words, stammering out his frantic apology in a near-blind panic.

Stanley watched, silently, unmovingly, still keeping a firm grip on Harry’s wrist as he rambled, begging to be forgiven for such an embarrassing oversight. When Harry’s train of thought finally came to a halt, he dared to look up, his breath shaking, in time to see Stanley pursing his lips and raising an eyebrow. 

‘Your apology is noted and accepted, Mr. Goodsir,’ Stanley’s voice was strange; there was barely any difference, and no-one else save Harry would have noticed it - he was the only person in the entire expedition who saw Stanley with such regularity - but it was a touch quieter, a touch softer, than his usual stern, unflinching tone of voice.

Harry gasped as the compress was removed from his wrist, and blinked up at Stanley as the doctor put the rag and the basin to one side before picking up Harry’s wrist again and turning it over in his hands. There was an odd look in the doctor’s eye - Harry found he could not place it - not the usual cold superiority or twitching anger that he so often found when looking at his superior’s face. 

‘Is the pain still unpleasant, Mr. Goodsir?’ Stanley asked, staring with pale, unblinking eyes at Harry.

Harry shook his head sheepishly, ‘No sir, it feels much better now, thank you.’

It still hurt, in truth, but not so much that he wanted to trouble Stanley anymore.

‘You’re a terrible liar, Mr. Goodsir,’ Stanley’s voice was still peculiar, imperceptibly softer, as he crossed the room towards one of the many cupboards and pulled out a bottle of Dover’s powder.

Harry watched mutely as Stanley measured out a pill’s worth of powder and rolled it carefully to shape.  _ Christ, the man had freckles at the nape of his neck as well; surely they must go further down _ . 

‘Take this, Mr. Goodsir,’ Stanley held the little pill out to Harry, along with a cup of water that seemed to have materialised from thin air.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Harry mumbled, and quickly gulped the pill and the water down, coughing slightly as the water caught in his throat. 

Stanley tutted at the sight, and handed Harry a dry rag to tidy himself up with, ‘Dry yourself up, Mr. Goodsir, for heaven’s sake.’

Harry took the rag with a small smile of thanks, and patted his arm and face dry, looking up at Stanley as he did so. The doctor was not looking at Harry; instead, he was staring at the sickbay door in a way that almost suggested avoidance - and would have done, on any other man. 

Harry took the chance to stare at the noble curve of his neck, the slight jut of his Adam’s apple, and the freckles that spilled across all of his features: so pale that they would not have been visible in the bright, uncompromising light of day, or from any distance. Here, though, Harry could see them quite clearly, and they were delightful.

Stanley blinked, appearing to have risen from some strange, quiet reverie, and turned back to look at Harry with a sigh, ‘You are aware you are staring, Mr. Goodsir? In quite an odd manner?’

Harry sucked in a breath, frozen to the spot; he hadn’t thought Stanley had been  _ looking _ , let alone looking closely enough to notice his expression. Stanley’s face had not changed from the peculiar, unplaceable expression he had been wearing before. If anything, the expression had settled deeper into the lines of his face: softer than anything Harry thought possible for the man. 

‘Do I have something unsightly on my face, Mr. Goodsir?’ Stanley asked, mouth set in a stern, slightly upturned line;  _ was he smirking _ ?

Harry shook his head quickly, suddenly very aware of how close Stanley was now standing: the soft fabric of his shirt hanging loosely over his broad shoulders, tucked into well-fitted trousers; the slight pinkness of his face, most likely due to the warmth of the lamps; the maddening pattern of freckles, cascading across every inch of bare skin. He was vaguely aware of Stanley inching closer to him; tall, angular figure casting a soft shadow over his own slight, shivering form.

‘Mr. Goodsir, what on  _ Earth  _ are you doing, looking at me like that?’ Stanley’s voice was lower, now, a rumbling vibrato that sent a shock to the base of Harry’s spine. 

Harry’s eyes widened, staring up at Stanley as a rabbit pinned by a fox, trembling.

‘Sir, I - I’m sorry…’ Harry winced at the sound of his voice; light, soft, quivering.

‘Enough of your apologies, Mr. Goodsir,’ Stanley leaned closer to him, and Harry shivered at the sight of those freckles, now within inches of his face, ‘ _ what _ are you  _ looking at _ ?’

Harry, sitting there, shaking like a leaf, was briefly struck by the fact that - if Stanley found his actions inappropriate - it would not be difficult for the doctor to kill him in a way that nobody would question. He had any number of medicines and instruments here that would make short work of Harry, and render him simply another corpse, ready to be cut open and investigated at length. 

Harry was also struck by the thought of Stanley taking him apart, piece by piece; it sent a lightning-bright shiver of desire down his spine and through his stomach, settling between his legs as a pulsing, shuddering lust. 

Stanley was so close to him. So maddeningly close to him, and in a momentary - he swore it was momentary - lapse of self-control, Harry raised a hand to flutter lightly against the doctor’s face, gulping down a breath as his fingertips brushed across that soft dusting of freckles.

‘ _ You have freckles, sir, _ ’ Harry whispered, awestruck that the man hadn’t torn his throat out or thrown him across the room, ‘ _ I’d not noticed them, before _ .’

Stanley’s eyes widened, only a fraction, and let out a soft breath that brushed over Harry’s face like a kiss. Harry had not been injured, had not been struck or shoved away, and it emboldened him - if only a little. 

He brushed his thumb softly under the crease of Stanley’s eye, watching the soft, crinkled skin move under his touch; wordlessly taking in the freckles as they moved with the skin they had settled into.

‘Have you not seen a man with freckles before, Mr. Goodsir? It is hardly an uncommon affliction,’ Stanley murmured, his eyes dipping down, only to trace back up Harry’s quivering body and settle on his lips. 

‘ _ Hardly an affliction, doctor, in fact - oh gosh, I’m sorry, sir - I find them quite delightful, _ ’ Harry replied, gasping, as he felt one of Stanley’s hands at the base of his spine - it was not moving, not caressing, but the weight and warmth of it made Harry light-headed. 

Stanley’s brow furrowed slightly, and he blinked again - as if Harry’s words had struck a nerve.

‘Mr. Goodsir, you are a fool,’ Stanley’s voice was low and rough, but there was no malice behind his words.

Harry, feeling as if he had been pressed to the table by some invisible force, felt his stomach flip; there was almost fondness, in Stanley’s words.  _ Almost _ . 

He felt bolder still, now, by tiny, creeping increments, and he leaned closer to Stanley until they were barely a hair’s breadth apart.

‘A fool? Oh, yes, sir,’ he whispered, ‘and as such I can, perhaps, allow myself foolish things?’

Stanley seemed almost hypnotised by Harry, stone-still, barely breathing, his eyes not leaving Harry’s lips as he spoke. He nodded, almost imperceptibly. 

‘For example, sir - the reason for my staring - what I have been wondering is this,’ Harry leaned forward, slotting his body against Stanley’s so his lips were against his ear, ‘how far down do those  _ delightful _ freckles go?’


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, welcome to the porn chapter, please enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for: mention of chest binding with bandages (binding is undone and binding safety is briefly); brief implication that Stanley will stop Harry from binding (this is cleared up as Stanley offers to help him bind safely); use of tongue and hands on a bare chest; vaginal fingering; use of the word 'prick' and 'cunt' to described Harry's genitals; brief mention of dysphoria and gender envy.

Stanley’s mouth dropped open, slightly, and Harry gazed up at him with a soft smirk. The ache in his wrist was beginning to subside from the Dover’s powder, and it was now replaced by a pleasant, pulsing ache between his legs. 

‘Do you expect me to simply remove my clothes for you, Mr. Goodsir, in aid of your  _ research _ ? I am not so easily seduced,’ Stanley murmured, moving his free hand to rest at the line of Harry’s whiskers.

‘Am I seducing you, then, sir?’ Harry breathed out, barely believing that he had gotten this far.

Stanley hummed softly, and leaned down to press a soft, teasing kiss to Harry’s jawline, ‘Perhaps…’

Harry bit back a whimper as Stanley’s lips touched his jaw, tilting his head to one side to give the tall, broad man better access to his bare skin. Stanley leaned down further, his lips moving, tantalising and gentle, across Harry’s bared neck. 

Harry felt his breath catch in his throat, and he wrapped his arms carefully - he did not want to anger him - around Stanley’s neck; not enough to truly hold the man in place, but certainly enough to suggest he continue his work.

Stanley murmured something unintelligible into Harry’s neck, and Harry gasped as his kisses became firmer; the man’s strong, stern mouth nipping and sucking methodically at every patch of skin he could find. Harry felt his own grip tighten on Stanley’s neck, pressing his face into the doctor’s shoulder with a shudder as Stanley’s hand at his back pulled their bodies flush together;  _ goodness he was strong, far stronger than Harry _ . 

Harry felt all the blood rush from his head as he felt a firm, ramrod straight hardness in Stanley’s trousers, and swallowed a whine as it was pressed against his own, far smaller, aching, cockstand. He blushed against Stanley’s neck as he felt the man’s breath catch; he had never told the doctor of his  _ condition _ , but if this was going to continue he would find out sooner rather than later. 

‘ _ Mr _ . Goodsir,’ Stanley all but  _ purred _ into his ear, ‘it appears you are missing some rather key apparatus.’

Harry felt his face burn up at Stanley’s words, ready to protest that ‘he was not missing anything, thank you very much’, it was simply a little  _ different _ to Stanley’s own - rather impressive - hardness. 

As he started to speak, Stanley cut him off with a firm, gently pressing hand on his throat, ‘Or at least, something down  _ there _ feels rather different to what one might expect, from a  _ gentleman _ .’

Stanley’s hand forced Harry to meet his eyes, and he gulped when he saw a flash of burning, brilliant lust cross the doctor’s expression.

‘And you  _ are _ a gentleman, are you not, Mr. Goodsir?’

Harry nodded as best he could, staring up at Stanley with wide, terrified eyes. He had thought he had some modicum of control over the situation, but now - confronted with the towering, hard lines of Stanley’s body - he realised that was absolutely not the case. 

‘Yessir,’ Harry slurred out, his eyes focussing on the freckles that covered the doctor’s face and neck, desperately trying to retain some level of dignity or control.

Stanley’s hand left his throat, and Harry gasped for breath - promptly stolen from him - as Stanley pulled him into a hard, bruising kiss. 

Harry moaned quietly into Stanley’s mouth, reeling from the heat and warmth of the kiss, trying desperately to keep his hands still - to stop them wandering over the doctor’s broad, square-set shoulders, over his back, towards the gentle swell of his buttocks.  _ God did he have freckles there? _

Stanley’s tongue passed over Harry’s lips, and he opened them eagerly, shivering as the doctor began to methodically, firmly, explore his mouth; steady, sweeping strokes cataloguing every crease and crevice, every tooth. Harry twitched with the effort of staying still, swaying gently as Stanley pulled away, mourning the loss of that hot, inquisitive mouth; such a stark contrast to the man’s usually cool, uninterested demeanour.

Harry stared up at him in a daze, blinking softly before unlocking his hands from around the doctor’s neck and letting his hands trace over his collar, pushing the folds of fabric tentatively aside. Stanley did not stop him, did not speak, did not move, and Harry felt a pang between his legs as the man nodded, barely, giving him silent permission.

Harry’s fingers felt as if they were coated in treacle; slow, unsteady, fumbling as he pushed each button through its eye, revealing the vast, pale expanse of Stanley’s chest and stomach. Harry gasped, excited, entranced: the freckles  _ did  _ continue their dancing, glittering journey there. Speckles of gentle pigment covered his shoulders and chest; irregular patterns of them skipping over pale skin.

He traced his shaking fingertips over those patterns, relishing the soft, sparse, strawberry-blonde hair that ran from Stanley’s chest to the waist of his trousers; now conspicuously tented with a length that made Harry’s cunt ache just to look at it. 

Stanley let out a soft sigh as Harry explored, pushing his shirt open far enough so he could trace the outline of the man’s broad, square waist with tentative fingers. So often he had longed for a form such as this - wide and firm and undeniably  _ masculine _ ; now, beneath his hands, the longing swelled up for a moment once more.  _ What he would give to look like this man _ .

He sighed softly, letting his fingers press against the soft skin of Stanley’s chest; the tighter skin of his stomach; the raspberry-pink peaks of his nipples - Stanley let out a sharp, quiet gasp as Harry brushed his fingers over the sensitive flesh - all the while admiring the dancing freckles that seemed to, truly, continue  _ all the way down _ .

‘Such a curious little thing, aren’t you, Mr. Goodsir?’ 

Harry gulped, and nodded softly, tearing his gaze away from Stanley’s chest and belly to meet his eyes, before replying, quietly, ‘I suppose I am, sir, terribly curious…’

‘Would you permit a little curiosity of my own, then, Mr. Goodsir? In return for whatever bizarre fascination you seem to have with my abdomen?’

Harry nodded, far too quickly, and breathed out a small, embarrassed laugh, ‘Yes, sir.’

Stanley hummed softly, before setting to work undressing Harry, with slow, clinical efficiency. Off came Harry’s jacket, his waistcoat, his necktie, his shirt. Off came his boots and trousers, pulled down and tossed to one side. Off came his undershirt, until all Harry was wearing were his longjohns, and the awkward array of bandages that flattened his chest to a level that he deemed acceptable. 

‘Surely that cannot be comfortable, Mr. Goodsir?’ Stanley murmured, tracing a finger over the bandages with a disapproving look.

Harry shook his head, mournfully, and shrugged, ‘I’m afraid it isn’t, sir, but it is what I must do…’

Stanley tutted, his fingers not leaving the bandages, ‘You keep this area washed, at least? There is potential for infection of the skin, should you not.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Harry whispered, his face pink; he had not expected Stanley to take such an interest - not in this area of his physiology, at least. 

‘Good,’ Stanley leaned forwards and rested a hand either side of Harry with a stern expression, their faces mere inches apart, ‘now, for a more serious question, Mr. Goodsir: will you permit me to remove them?’

Harry swallowed, blinking rapidly. He did not  _ mind _ his chest, exactly, it was only that it was so utterly alien to him. A part of his body that felt as if it had been attached by invisible, unbreakable strings, neither bad nor good, to him - but undoubtedly wrong to everyone who discovered the shapes he concealed beneath those blasted bandages. 

Stanley watched him carefully, eyes piercing through his skin with alarming clarity.

‘I need not remove them, Mr. Goodsir,’ Stanley bit down gently on the skin between the bandages and his neck as he spoke, and Harry shivered at the sensation.

‘It’s alright, sir,’ his voice was shaky with fear and excitement at the prospect of exposing himself so fully to this strange, imposing man, ‘you may remove them.’

Stanley nodded, pressing a kiss to Harry’s other shoulder, before beginning the arduous task of untangling and unknotting the damn things. Harry quivered with embarrassment at the state of them; it was difficult to keep them neat and flat beneath his layers, and they must look an absolute sight - all tangled and knotted in an utterly incomprehensible mess.

‘Mr. Goodsir this is utterly ridiculous,’ Stanley’s tone was not aggressive, but Harry winced nonetheless, ‘you are not to do this again.’

Harry jerked back from the man, horrified at his words, ready with a long, practiced speech about control of his own body; stunned by the man’s impertinence in such an intimate setting.

HIs speech was stayed, however, as Stanley pressed a warm, careful finger to his lips, ‘Or rather, you are not to do this again without my assistance; if you continue with such shoddy work you will be a hunchback by thirty.’

Harry’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, rendered momentarily mute at the doctor’s statement; sounding for all the world as if he were offering to assist Harry with his laundry, rather than to help him conceal his oddly, awkwardly formed body from the world. 

‘Mr. Goodsir?’ Stanley looked at him sternly, still slowly unwinding the mess of bandages, ‘do you understand? I will not have a member of my staff disabling himself in such a manner.’

Harry blinked, gathering himself before nodding, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. I do not say it to be cruel, Mr. Goodsir, it is simply for the good of your body.’

‘I know, sir,’ Harry looked up at him with a smile, ‘it’s only that I’ve not had a person offer such a thing before...thank you, sir.’

Harry felt his cheeks heat up as Stanley stared at him; the final wrap of the bandages falling away, exposing his sore, compressed chest to the warm air of the sickbay. He had a small chest - a fact he was eternally grateful for - and the injections he administered once a month had given him a surprising amount of body hair, that covered it like a soft, dark rug, so it was decently concealed. Stanley watched him carefully, face set in a stern, almost-kind, expression.

Harry flickered his eyes downwards, stunned to see that the man’s cockstand had not flagged; when his eyes met Stanley’s again, it felt as if all the air had left his body. The man was staring at him as if he was about to devour his strange, uncomfortable body whole: bright, burning blue eyes fixed on Harry’s face like a starving man would eye a banquet.

‘You may touch me, sir, if you wish,’ Harry whispered, leaning towards Stanley, looking up through his long, dark eyelashes. 

Stanley swallowed, loudly, and immediately surged forwards, cupping one side of Harry’s chest with a large, impossibly warm hand. Harry whimpered at the touch, arching forwards and gasping as Stanley rolled one of his nipples between steady, soft fingers - sending a jolt of pleasure to his prick and to his cunt. 

Stanley hummed, seeming to be only half paying attention to the effect he was having on Harry. Another burning jolt shot through Harry’s body as Stanley buried his free hand in his dark, sweat-damp curls; levering Harry’s head back to expose the twitching column of his throat. 

The doctor licked a searing strip up the exposed flesh, beginning at the dip between Harry’s collarbones and coming to a stop at the rounded curve of his chin, causing Harry to arch even further into his touch; curving his back and pressing his chest firmly into Stanley’s hand. Stanley, still stern-faced, bowed his head once again, and fastened his lips around the nipple that his fingers had so far neglected, tracing the shape of it with his tongue.

Harry bit down on his lip, burying a scream in his throat, and felt a warm flood of wetness between his legs, his prick throbbing at the twitching, wet pleasure that Stanley was inflicting upon him. Fluttering tongue and firmly rubbing fingertips driving him to distraction; hand still buried in his hair providing a grounding, warm pain; lightning bolts of pleasure causing him to soak through his drawers.

He whimpered as Stanley pulled his head away, all too soon, and rested both hands on Harry’s soft, quivering thighs with a sigh.

‘Such a sensitive little creature,’ he muttered as he raked his eyes over Harry’s shaking body, ‘so easily taken apart.’

Harry whimpered softly at the words, eyes darting to glance at Stanley’s cockstand, before settling on the man’s hands where they rested; sparse, soft freckles catching beautifully in the warm light. 

‘Is that what you want, Mr. Goodsir?’ Stanley asked, raising an eyebrow in apparent distaste, ‘I take such care in my work  _ here _ , and all you seem interested in is my cock.’

Stanley gestured at Harry’s heaving chest to demonstrate his ‘work’. 

Harry gulped loudly as the man finished his sentence; he had never heard the man use such vulgar language -  _ what other words could he make his superior officer say, he wondered, with that lovely, rich voice.  _

‘I asked you a question, Mr. Goodsir,’ Stanley’s voice was steel, wrapped in velvet, ‘I expect an answer. Is  _ this _ what you want?’

Stanley pressed a hand to his cockstand, stroking it firmly through the thick material of his trousers, emphasising his question. 

Harry felt a shiver rush through his body, settling at his prick, and he nodded, ‘Yes, sir, I do want it, sir.’

Stanley sighed, looking as if Harry had simply knocked over a stack of papers, ‘You want  _ what _ , Mr. Goodsir? I will ask you to be specific, if we are to continue this little venture.’

Harry’s eyes widened, another, lust-filled shiver shooting down his spine. He looked down at Stanley’s cockstand, where it strained impressively at the front of his trousers, with a gulp; his mouth was watering, his cunt was aching.

‘ _ Your cock, sir, I want your cock _ ,’ he whispered, ‘ _ I want it inside me, sir, please _ .’

Stanley’s breath hitched a little at Harry’s words, and Harry allowed himself a small victory at such a minute break in the doctor’s carefully constructed composure. Stanley leaned forwards with a nod, pressing a soft line of kisses up Harry’s shoulder, towards his neck.

Harry bit down on his tongue as Stanley sucked firmly at the delicate skin of his collar bone, whining softly at the hot, wet ache, letting his moans be swallowed up by Stanley as the man moved to kiss him properly; steady, serious tongue swiping over Harry’s lips, plucking tiny whimpers from his throat. 

‘Lie back, Mr. Goodsir,’ Stanley murmured into his mouth, ‘lie back and I shall give you what you want.’

Harry nodded, near-feverish with need, and did as he was bid, settling himself back on the examination table until he was entirely horizontal. He heard shuffling from where Stanley was standing, and propped himself up on his elbows just in time to see the man unbutton his trousers and pull out his prick.

Harry swallowed loudly, staring unashamedly as Stanley stroked it; blue eyes closed, face far softer than Harry had ever seen it. He longed to touch it; to wrap his own, small hands around the doctor’s prick; to lower his head down until his nose brushed at the wiry, auburn curls that poked tantalisingly through the gap in Stanley’s trousers and smallclothes. 

‘You are panting like an animal, Mr. Goodsir. Is this truly all it takes to quiet that mouth of yours, hm?’ Stanley spoke quietly, sternly, his eyes now open and glittering blue as he stared at Harry, ‘if I had known that, I would have fed you my prick months ago; for something to keep you occupied, if nothing else.’

Harry whimpered as Stanley leaned over him, pushing his legs open and yanking his longjohns down in one fluid movement, exposing his cunt and his prick in a way that made Harry squirm. 

He was bared, in his entirety, to this man. Every strange, oddly-formed inch of him was on display for his superior officer to appraise; it made him shudder - fear and lust flowing together and making his cunt throb. 

Stanley was silent for a moment, the only sound in the sickbay being the creak of the ice, the distant murmur of the crew, and Harry’s hot, heavy breathing. 

Harry flinched in surprise when Stanley finally spoke, ‘Keep your legs open, Mr. Goodsir.’

He was given no more warning than that, then, as he felt one -  _ no, two _ \- fingers plunge inside him, his back arching off the table, as much from shock as from arousal. Harry let out a garbled, shuddering breath as Stanley crooked his fingers and pressed down on a spot inside his cunt a with firm, certain pressure.

‘Do try and stay still, Mr. Goodsir,’ Stanley muttered, his face creased with concentration as he worked his fingers deeper inside Harry.

Lying back with a whimper, Harry gave himself over to Stanley’s ministrations; long, slender fingers pumping mercilessly in and out of his cunt, stretching him out with clinical precision, making him quiver and clench around them. He bucked up, with a bitten-back cry, when he felt Stanley’s mouth on him, sudden, unexpected, liquid heat, engulfing his prick. 

Harry bit down on his hand as Stanley sucked at his prick; the near-painfully hard flesh throbbing against his tongue as he worked, causing Harry’s eyes to roll back in his head, his thighs to shake, his toes to curl. 

He could not say when the doctor had added another finger, but the stretch in his cunt; the pressure on his prick; the slick, wet sounds, all were making him arch and thrust against the doctor with increasing desperation, chasing his release. 

All of it building and building, peaks upon peaks of searing desire, until Harry felt his crisis rise from within him as a great tidal wave, and crash through his body with unflinching, burning heat. He  _ groaned _ against his wrist, teeth biting down hard enough to bruise, feeling his entire body convulse with arching, shuddering pleasure. 

But Stanley did not stop. If anything, it felt as if his fingers were moving more aggressively, his tongue pressing down onto Harry’s prick with burning intensity. Harry thrashed and shuddered against him; the branding heat of Stanley’s mouth barely this side of pleasurable, the movement of his fingers so easy and slick that Harry whimpered with embarrassment, stunned beyond comprehension that his body was capable of  _ this _ . 

Stanley hummed against his cockstand, a low, lusty sound that reverberated through Harry and settled in his chest. It vibrated across his prick, and just as he thought he might expire from the pressure alone, Stanley’s fingers quickened their pace impossibly against that bizarre, curling spot at the wall of Harry’s cunt - pushing against it with brutal intention before pulling out with a vicious, white-hot twist.

Harry wailed, thrashing wildly, biting down on his wrist, and his vision was gone. 

He was barely aware of his body. Shaking pleasure wracked over him: his vision greying over, his limbs becoming boneless, his mind blank; all he could feel was the pulsing, shuddering twitch of his prick and his cunt. All of Harry was focussed on his release, flinging him out of himself, rendering him brainless, boneless and silent. His body shuddering and quaking, entirely of its own accord. 

He could not say how long it took, to return to his body, but when he did he was greeted with Stanley’s face mere inches from his own - flushed and shiny with sweat, and something else, something wet and shimmering, that Harry could not identify. Harry reached out a hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Stanley’s cheek, admiring the warm, pink flush of his skin and the freckles - all covered in that strange, shining liquid. 

The doctor closed his eyes against Harry’s touch, leaning into the touch like some large, pacified tomcat, opening his mouth and letting Harry’s thumb softly trace the line of his teeth. Harry stared into Stanley’s face, following the lines and creases, resting for a moment on his pale eyelashes; inhaling in soft surprise as he saw the freckles that glittered over his eyelids - suddenly overcome with the urge to kiss them. 

But, before Harry could lean upwards and kiss those tiny speckles; before he could lick the slick from his face (Harry could only assume it was  _ his _ ; that Stanley was covered in  _ his _ spend, his  _ seed, _ somehow) Stanley curled a hand around the back of his head, and crushed their lips together with an intensity that caused Harry’s mind to go blank once again. 

It was all Stanley, now, all lips and tongue and biting, sharp teeth; a taste of musk and salt burst across Harry’s palette, and he whined as he realised that was  _ him _ . He could taste himself on Stanley’s tongue;  _ God _ he felt he might faint. 

Harry wrapped his arms around Stanley’s neck, holding them together and panting loudly against the man’s mouth, pressing his hips upward until he felt the brush of his cockhead over his cunt. Stanley bit back a groan, and Harry grinned up at him - teasing, shaking.

‘Come on, sir. Time to indulge that curiosity of yours.’

He shivered as Stanley let out a long, low growl, ‘This is the result of  _ your _ curiosity, Mr. Goodsir - nothing more.’

The brush of his prick against Harry’s cunt became more insistent, now - slender, blunt head rubbing against slick, soft folds. Harry whimpered, his head falling back - only to be caught by Stanley’s arms, pulling them together until their foreheads touched. 

He opened his eyes, overcome with desire as he saw the look on Stanley’s face: arousal, need, tinged with mild annoyance that Harry would never be able to see again without feeling a pang in his cunt. 

Harry moaned, deep in his chest, as he felt Stanley push inside him. A steady, pulsing ache, filling him up, stretching him out, moving, moving, until he felt Stanley’s hips press against his prick. He kept his arms wrapped around Harry, and Harry pressed himself upwards, holding the man in turn, breathing heavily into his ear. 

Stanley’s breath was shaky against Harry’s neck, warm air brushing over sensitive skin, and Harry felt his cunt clench around the hard, insistent intrusion as he shivered. Stanley’s shirt was still loose around his shoulders, and Harry snaked his hands underneath the soft fabric to press against the warm, speckled skin; he had freckles there, as well, so many freckles - swirling patterns of pigment that made Harry’s heart flutter in his chest. Such strange softness beneath the doctor’s frosty exterior.

He held Stanley against his chest, and the doctor’s arms tightened around him; two bodies near melded together, silent but for their breath and the soft, slick sounds of Harry’s cunt as Stanley began to move within him.

It was careful, gentle, so strangely tender that Harry felt his stomach turn somersaults; he had never been touched, or fucked, like this. Insistent, slick push and pull; Stanley’s heavy breath at his neck, his arms wrapped around Harry, making him feel small, and safe, and  _ held _ . 

Harry whimpered softly, his cunt hot and shivering, as Stanley fucked into him; slender, heavy prick stretching him open. Stanley’s breath had quickened at his neck, and was now coming out in low, heavy pants, brushing against Harry’s skin as he ground his cock into him over, and over again. 

Harry shuddered, his cunt clenching again as one of Stanley’s hands wormed between them and began to play with his prick; insistent, firm fingertips teasing the engorged flesh - almost painful, almost overstimulated, but still eager and twitching to the touch. He wrapped his legs tighter around Stanley’s waist, sighing happily at the all-encompassing, aching sensation, pressing his mouth to any area of the man’s back and shoulders he could find- soft, warm, freckled skin a balm to his chapped lips. 

His back bowed as Stanley’s finger began to pinch and pull at his prick, frigging him as if his cockstand were of a usual length and girth; Harry whimpered against Stanley’s shoulder, burying his face in that lovely, heated skin and letting the doctor pull him to yet another crisis - his cock pressing into him with increasing speed and urgency. Harry’s release washed over him softly, this time, gentle waves and tides flowing across his skin - floating him towards the firm, unyielding shore that was Stanley.

He shook softly through his release as the tall, broad man murmured into his ear, such strange, soft words, unlike anything Harry had ever imagined. Encouragement, praise, all saturated with lust.

‘ _ You’re doing beautifully - you’re taking me so well - Christ just look at you...open and gasping for me; so fucking wet, just dripping over my cock, aren’t you? God look at you...such a lovely little creature - so slick, such a handsome thing - such a good boy for my cock.’ _

Harry shivered - his eyes falling shut, his heart pounding in his chest - at the stream of words tumbling out of the doctor’s mouth, his self-control seemingly gone as he moved inside him; his prick hot, throbbing, burning.

‘ _ So lovely - ah - such a lovely thing, letting me in, letting me fill you like this; sweet boy - sweet, sweet thing - hot cunt all stretched and slick around me, hm? So fucking pretty, aren’t you, Harry, so lovely…’ _

Harry gasped, pulling Stanley into his neck, holding him closely, his head reeling as the doctor spoke (he had  _ never _ heard him use his Christian name, not in all their time together, it sounded like sin, like prayer, like Heaven, falling from his lips). 

He canted his hips upwards, meeting Stanley thrust for thrust, tightening the muscles of his cunt and moaning softly - encouraging, thanking, drowning - as the doctor’s body shuddered, snapped rigid, and stilled above him; a flood of hot, wet seed filling his cunt, spilling wetly onto the table beneath them. Stanley was silent as his crisis took him, words stuttering to a halt, breath catching and shaking into Harry’s ear. Harry stroked his back gently, soothing him as he would a frightened animal; keeping his legs wrapped tightly around him as his body became calm and pliant, all the tension flowing out of him.

He clung to Stanley, losing himself in the warmth of his body, inhaling quietly and letting his nostrils fill with the sweat-soap-heat scent that rose from him. There, laying smothered under the broad, warm body of the doctor, he felt a peace flow over him and hold him closely. Euphoria, tinged with retreating lust.

Stanley moved against him, small, careful movements, and Harry gasped softly as he removed his prick; a hot, slick trickle of seed leaking after it, pooling on the table. He loosened his grip on the doctor - aware of an ache in his arms and legs from how tightly he had attached himself to the man - and looked up at Stanley as he passed the discarded compress over his face, wiping the sweat and spend from himself.

His face was unreadable. Not quite the usual stony, stern mask, nor the soft, warm look of desire that Harry had lapped up so eagerly. 

Harry sat up as Stanley knelt gingerly before him; suddenly aware of his nakedness compared to the taller man, who had already tucked his softening prick back in his trousers. Harry shuddered as the doctor passed the compress over his chest and cunt, cleaning him with precise, careful strokes until he appeared satisfied with the state of him and tossed the rag into the wash basket. 

Stanley straightened in front of him, and began to button his shirt with those long, steady fingers.

‘I can do that, sir, if you wish?’ Harry’s voice was small in the suddenly echoing space of the sickbay.

Stanley nodded, stiffly, and Harry shuffled forwards. He plucked carefully at each button, letting his fingers linger on the warmth of Stanley’s belly, his chest, his throat, cataloguing every inch and every freckle as he went; savouring this moment of peace as he worked.

Finally, when he tucked Stanley’s shirt back into his trousers, the man spoke, ‘We need not speak of this again, Mr. Goodsir.’

His voice was quiet, firm, and Harry felt his stomach drop; he did not want this to be some fluke, or some pitiful favour bestowed on him by his looming, serious SO. He  _ wanted  _ to speak of it again, desperately; he had miles and miles of the man to explore - miles of warm, bespeckled skin to traverse, to touch, to worship - and his appetite had been so thoroughly whetted that he doubted he could stop if he wanted to. 

Harry steeled himself before replying, ‘I understand, sir, but I’m afraid that will not do.’

Stanley blinked, a flash of surprise passing over his face before being swatted away by an expression of mild, steady interest. 

‘Excuse me, Mr. Goodsir?’

‘That will not do, sir, you see I still have some research to conduct,’ Harry shuffled off the table - still very much in the altogether - and stood before Stanley with a bright, teasing smirk, ‘you have seen so much of me, sir, while I have seen so little of you; and, you see, doctor, I  _ am  _ still wondering about those freckles…’

Stanley’s breath caught in his throat for a moment, and Harry’s gaze followed the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. 

‘Good Lord you are incorrigible, Mr. Goodsir.’

‘Oh yes, sir,’ Harry replied with a grin, tracing a fingertip down Stanley’s neatly buttoned shirt, ‘quite incorrigible indeed.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medical note: I know testosterone wasn't isolated and used as medicine etc. until the 1900s but it's for the VIBES okay! Harry can have some medical inaccuracy for his body and facial hair, as a treat.


End file.
